Then somehow I ended up absent-mindedly looking for a picture of Henry Rollins’ eyeball. I can’t remember if I was gonna write something about Henry Rollins’ eyeball. I think, mostly, that I was intending on printing out several of them so as to glue those suckahs to a canvas; naturally, glopping some paint around on them afterwards is paramount.

Shit. I went all the way to Hobby Lobby today and forgot to buy some canvas, a canvas, whatever. I don’t think I even managed to canvas the area. I did, however, get to witness a lady named Evelyn rail against the injustices of retail as I purchased a sackful of that crap that is brand-spanking new but mocked-up to look genYOOinely and tROOly old. (me=shmuck. but it’s for a wedding shower. more on this at a later date. when I can choke back down my innards and all. so, maybe never)

Evelyn honey, if you hate your job, just retire. Again.

SO, in the midst of all this webjockeying there was Banksy, whom I’d forgotten about but am still hot for in that generic WASP-y (me, not him) way. And there was BaconWhores.com, which brought to mind a certain meat lover and also made me hoot with ten shades of glee and mirth. Somehow The Mighty Fan O’ Sandwich was connected to all this horrible bandwidth misuse activity but none of the witnesses are talkin’. Rumor is that it had something to do with a picture someone left in a rogue comment somewhere.

(Scarlett Johansson is a TWIN? I gotta get out more.)

Along the way I came across this and this and this (one-two-three, come laugh with me) before somehow getting to this. The latter, while being neato, doesn’t help me a whole lot in the ‘Henry Rollins’ eyeball’ department.

You see my dilemma. This is how inspiration gets cornholed, because I’ll be damned if I’m gonna sit up all night and hunt up the perfect picture of Henry’s eyeball, you know?

To top it all off, yesterday I wrote something important in blue sharpie on a see-through post-it note dealie. Now I can’t find it.

DAMN.

pee ess….I came up out of my very-little-teevee-watching hole for five minutes to check out the viewing climate and caught a whiff of this. I predict six more months of steadily-declining television fare all across the board. That, and you know how your mother was always yelling the thing about how your grill’d freeze that way if you didn’t quit! making! thatface!? Nancy Gee hella, HELLA proves it true. Hella.